


iostephanos

by pipistrelle



Series: Ancient Greek Word of the Day [3]
Category: Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: F/F, Fever, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I’m a one trick pony and make no apologies for it, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: Iostephanos: violet-crowned. A lesson in the use and history of flowers.
Relationships: Gabrielle/Xena
Series: Ancient Greek Word of the Day [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536460
Comments: 11
Kudos: 69





	iostephanos

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to terpsikeraunos on tumblr for letting me use their scholarship as silly fanfic prompts!
> 
> This is early season 2 sometime. I’m working on a few other heavy emotional fics, and just needed something that was none of those things. (And also a way to procrastinate Nano, but that’s just a bonus.)

**ἰοστέφανος (iostephanos), violet-crowned.**

* * *

“All right,” Xena says, kneeling beside the fire, “tell me what I’m doing now.”

Gabrielle leans forward, elbows on her knees, to get a closer look at the scraps of greenery Xena’s collected in the bowl of an upturned helmet. Ever since the temple of Asclepius, Xena’s been tutoring her in common herbs and arts of healing. ”Bark and leaves of the willow,” she announces. The words scrape her raw throat like they’re made of flint, but that doesn’t slow her down. “One of the strongest herbs against fever, and it helps with headaches and the pain of small wounds.”

Healing herbs aren’t the only thing Xena’s been teaching her to recognize; the helmet looks like one of Draco’s, with the weak point vulnerable to a blow above the bridge of the nose. But mentioning how well she’s learned that kind of lesson tends to drive Xena into one of her moods, and then all she’ll do is stomp around and scowl for a couple of days until she finds some brigands or slavers, someone to direct her anger at besides herself. And Zeus knows she’s been brooding and anxious enough lately.

“Good.” Xena drops the willow-bark scraps into the pot simmering over the fire. From a pouch in her saddlebag she scoops out a handful of dusky blue flowers. “And these?”

Gabrielle plucks one and twirls it between her fingers. “Sweet violet. In a poultice, it can help heal bruises or redness of the eyes.” She turns aside to muffle a harsh, hacking cough into her shoulder. When she looks up she finds Xena’s eyes on her, worried and almost the same shade as the violet. Gabrielle smiles encouragingly. “Boiled in water or wine, violet helps with sleeplessness and roughness of the throat. And it eases the heart. Maybe you should try some, too.”

Xena scowls. “My heart is just fine, thanks. Any other symptoms I should know about?”

Gabrielle shakes her head, then winces. “Headache, fever, sleeplessness, sore throat — I think that about covers it.”

Xena prods at her concoction with the ladle like she’s trying to scare it into submission. When she’s satisfied, she dumps out the wilted, wrinkled husks of leaves and flowers, carefully pours the simmered wine into a bowl and places it into Gabrielle’s hands. “Breathe the steam first, then drink the whole thing.”

“And then we’ll head to Corinth?” Gabrielle curls forward obediently, breathing in the sweet heady vapors. She can’t tell if she’s dizzy from the fever or the wine, but the warmth of the bowl in her hands is a welcome relief. Even with the mild spring weather, and the thick wolfskin mantle Xena drapes around her shoulders every time they stop moving, she hasn’t felt warm for three days.

Xena slings the leather strap of her scabbard over one shoulder and comes to sit beside Gabrielle, sheathed sword in one hand and whetstone in the other. “No. When you’ve finished that, you’ll try and get some sleep.”

“I’m all right, really,” Gabrielle protests. “It’s only noon! I can keep traveling. I’ve slowed you down enough already.”

“Believe me, I’ve been going exactly the speed I wanted to.” Xena’s voice is perfectly even, the way she gets when she’d rather be skinned alive by harpies than show that she’s feeling anything at all. “You’ve been sick for four days now, and I don’t like the sound of that cough. There could be damage to your lungs, from —“ she makes a vague gesture with her fingertips towards the fist-sized bruise, fading but still visible, over Gabrielle’s breastbone. “We’ll get to Corinth soon enough. It’s more important that you rest.”

“Worrywart.” Gabrielle takes a tentative sip of the wine, pleased that it doesn’t scald her. It tastes more different than a few herbs should account for, sharper and sweeter than any wine she’s ever had; but she might be imagining things.

She definitely isn’t imagining the scrape of steel on stone, much faster and more aggressive than necessary. After a year of listening to it, Gabrielle can hear every nuance and variation in that sound, the same way Xena can bite down on a knife stabbed into the dirt and know which vibrations mean ‘farmer’s wagon’ and which mean ‘approaching army’. She could write a symphony, Gabrielle thinks blearily. A thousand swordsmen, each with a sharpening stone, some fast and some slow, some content and some angry…

Even with her eyes closed, even if she were deaf to the unhappy sword-scraping, she can _feel_ the tension in every line of Xena’s body, every one of her incredibly defined muscles as taut as a bowstring. She was just starting to relax after the ordeal in Asclepius’ temple, and then Gabrielle caught a chill and Xena plunged right back into misery and guilt. As though any of it was her fault. As though she’s going to have to drag Gabrielle back from the Elysian Fields again!

And now the pounding pain in Gabrielle’s head is falling into rhythm with the scrape of the stone. “All right, your turn,” she croaks. “Where do violets come from?”

Xena pauses mid-stroke to feel Gabrielle’s forehead. “Your fever must be higher than I thought.”

Gabrielle swats her hand away with a laugh that breaks into a cough. “I’m serious! You don’t know?”

“It’s a plant. It comes from seeds, that grow in the ground.”

“There’s a story —“

“Of course there is,” Xena grumbles.

“Zeus fell in love with Io,” Gabrielle goes on, ignoring her, “a beautiful maiden and daughter of an ocean nymph. But Hera discovered their passion, and would have killed Io in a jealous rage. To hide her from Hera’s wrath, Zeus transformed her into a pure white heifer, and created a new flower for her to eat so she wouldn’t have to live off the common grass.”

Xena snorts in disdain, but at least she’s put her sword away. “I doubt she was all that grateful.”

Gabrielle finishes the last of the wine. The sharp-sweet taste, like burnt honey, is stronger now and lingers on her tongue. The dull pain in her chest, the pounding in her head and the sourceless, battered ache, like the exhaustion that comes after the terrors of a battlefield, are finally starting to ease. “This ‘s good stuff,” she says to Xena, who only looks at her, stern unease melting before the ghost of a smile.

Encouraged, Gabrielle grins back. “There’s another story. A huntress of Artemis —”

“You should save your voice,” Xena says mildly, almost gently.

“You’ll like this one. A young huntress of Artemis was chasing a proud stag through the woods when she stumbled across a group of vestal virgins bathing in a mountain stream. They were all beautiful, but there was one among them whose beauty shone like a star, so bright that the huntress was dazzled and fell to her knees, crying out to Cupid and Aphrodite in supplication. For she knew that no vestal virgin would ever forsake her vows, except for love, and how could such a cold beauty be moved to love? Cupid heard her cries and fired one of his arrows, but the vestal maiden was swift as a lark and vanished into the woods. Cupid’s arrow fell instead on a little white flower, that was forever after stained with heart’s blood.”

By the time she finishes Gabrielle’s voice is hardly stronger than a whisper. She leans forward, bowed by a fit of coughing that seizes her by the throat and doesn’t let go until black blotches dance across her vision from lack of air. Even when it passes, it takes her a moment to get enough breath to speak. “That’s one use of violet you didn’t teach me,” she croaks at last.

Xena stares at her in blank incomprehension. Clearly every thought of flowers is gone from her head. “What?”

“Love potions.” Gabrielle plucks one last fallen violet from the trampled grass and twirls it in her fingers. “My mother always used to say violets could be used in love potions. But she would never teach us how to make them, so we had to come up with our own recipes. One time Lila accidentally poisoned Ayleus — the cobbler’s son — so he was sick for a week.” She brightens. “You know more about herbs than anyone. Do you know a recipe that _does_ work?”

“Not one that’s worth the trouble of making it.” Xena tugs the fur mantle tighter around Gabrielle’s shoulders. Her fingers glide just a moment too long over the side of Gabrielle’s neck, a bit too low to be taking her pulse and too intimate to be doing anything else. She’s been doing this a lot lately — touching Gabrielle no more than usual, but more hesitantly, with more focus and less precision. Like physical affection is a language she knew once but hasn’t spoken in years, and now she has to relearn it, haltingly, fumbling for meaning she doesn’t quite understand.

Helpfully, Gabrielle leans into her, pressing her cheek to the place where the leather of Xena’s breastplate gives way to warm skin. She’s surprisingly soft.

“Y’re soft,” Gabrielle tells her, because it seems like the sort of thing she should know.

The slow stroke of Xena’s hand through her hair turns the heavy dizziness of fever into something almost pleasant. Amused, Xena says, “What d’you want with a love potion, anyway?”

“To right wrongs,” Gabrielle says decisively. “Find a beautiful farmer’s daughter who wants to win a noble prince…melt a cruel king’s cold heart…”

“Nothing for yourself?”

“Nah,” Gabrielle says. The sunlight and Xena are finally starting to warm her, and the herbs in the wine are dragging her slowly down into what feels like the first restful sleep she’ll have had in days. They’ll get to Corinth eventually, and find more wrongs to right. She doesn’t remember much of her brief visit to the Elysian Fields in Asclepius’ temple, but she can’t help but feel that since then everything’s been brighter, more solid; that everything, including Xena — especially Xena — is more precious now that she’s come back to it. “I have everything I need.”

“Then come and lie down.” Xena disentangles herself and unrolls Gabrielle’s bedroll beside the fire. On her way to the bedroll, Gabrielle finds herself struck by sudden inspiration. She reaches up and brushes Xena’s hair behind her ear, slipping the stem of the last violet flower in with it so the purple bloom stands bright as hearts-blood on a field of raven black.

“You keep it,” she says, then ruins the effect by coughing harshly into her fist. 

Xena doesn’t seem to mind. A hint of a smile flits across her face. “Get some rest,” she says, with a brief brush of fingertips over Gabrielle’s forehead. “You can tell me more stories tomorrow.”

Hours later, when Gabrielle wakes in the fading dusk, there’s fresh-caught rabbit cooking over the campfire and the flower is still vivid in Xena’s hair.


End file.
